You- Johnlock
by WingsOfDuskAndDawn
Summary: So I saw this thing on facebook where someone was musing what it would be like if one day John asked Sherlock what he was thinking about and Sherlock accidentally blurted "you," and I came up with this. I hope you like it, and though I'm not sure who came up with the idea, this one's for you! Oh, and I OWN NOTHING.


John Watson entered 221B Baker Street the same way after every shift. Heavy footsteps clunked on the stairs, the door opened slowly, John exhaled, as if letting out the troubles of the day, walked through, closed the door, and proceeded to remove his jacket, gloves, and shoes before placing them all in the appropriate locations. This done, he proceeded to the kitchen to start water for a cuppa, check on his flat mate, finish making the tea, and return to the living room to work on his blog.

This routine very rarely differed, when he went to work at St. Bart's. The hours he took were long, the patients typically either difficult or terrified, and yet he never once called in a sick day when he was scheduled, not unless he was needed by Sherlock.

All these thoughts and many more ran through the consulting detective's mind as the routine began again, the familiar sounds of footsteps on the stairs drawing him out of his mind palace. This, too, had become routine of late. It didn't matter what Sherlock was doing, or how important it was. No experiment, case, or other epiphany could distract him from the homecoming of John Watson. And it terrified him, knowing that it would continue to get worse. He knew what it was he was experiencing, because he had seen it before. His own brother had warned him that this could happen, and the words had been laced with sympathy, rare for Mycroft.

So when John hung up his jacket and slipped his gloves in the pocket, set his shoes beside the coatrack, and went to the kitchen, Sherlock's mind was whirling, wondering how he could possibly fix things before they got worse. There was no coming back from that affliction, not for those of his family. Holmes men had a long standing tradition of experiencing it once, and only once, in their lifetimes, but it had the potential, always, to shatter them. Mycroft, of course, was incredibly lucky; he'd found, in DI Lestrade, a stable, steady life partner whose affection for him now was almost as obvious as the cases he solved.

Yes, in every sense of the words, Mycroft Holmes and Gregory Lestrade were _in love_. Sherlock was, too, but he'd gone and done something horribly, horribly foolish, which he knew he was going to spend the rest of his life paying for. He knew, just as surely as he knew it would rain again tomorrow no matter what the newscasters said, that the man living in the flat two doors down would die of the cancer he'd purposefully ignored, and that at least one of the patients John had seen today had cried when getting shots. He knew, because he was Sherlock Holmes, and he was never wrong, except that one disastrous time with Mary Morstan, but it was beside the point.

So when John asked if he was okay, he nodded, or at least, he thought he did. That was the usual pattern, except when he was too lost in his mind palace to answer. Lately, though, he couldn't even get lost there, not when John was in the room. The gesture must not have been convincing, however, or must not have happened at all, because he could see John out of the corner of his eye, peering at him curiously.

"What are you thinking about there, Sherlock?" The question was casual, so casual that Sherlock answered without thinking, desperate to be free of the conversation.

"You."

Both men blinked, and then the consulting detective leapt to his feet, terrified of having to explain his own comment. He had forgotten to take his shoes off that morning, after returning from a crime scene—solved in 6 minutes, 27 seconds—and retreating immediately into his mind palace, interrupted only when John had left again, this time for work. He was appreciative of that fact now as he strode to the door, grabbed his Belstaff, and tugged it on impatiently.

"I… when will you be home?" John, who was experiencing a little mental whiplash, struggled to find the right question.

"I don't know." Sherlock was gone before the doctor could get out another question, leaving a very confused doctor behind to think about the exchange. It had been strange, but not in the way he was used to. Normally, he understood his flat mate's brand of bizarre, and it didn't leave him half so flummoxed. There had been something about the way he'd said that one word. It echoed in John's head now as he set his cuppa on the small table beside him, next to the other one, which obviously wouldn't be drunk now.

"You." John tasted the word on his tongue, wondered why it had made his own heart jump… and made the consulting detective flee out the door without an explanation. Something to do with a case was the obvious answer, but John couldn't think of any cases he'd had any kind of pivotal role in over the past several weeks, or anything he might have said that would have helped Sherlock figure out murder. And he hadn't seemed excited when he'd left, but alarmed.

Wracking his brains, John couldn't come up with any explanation, except the one he prayed was true but knew better than to hope for after so long. Undoubtedly, he told himself, drawing that conclusion was just his way of dreaming that Sherlock might ever think of him in that way. Wishful thinking was nice in the middle of the night when the flat was empty and he could stroke himself to completion with Sherlock's name on his lips, but it was not going to help him deal with his current reality.

Deciding that it was probably just another strange, quirky thing that the consulting detective had assumed would make perfect sense to him and would be disappointed to learn had meant nothing to him, he switched on the telly, deciding that he would stay awake for a few hours, just in case Sherlock came home bursting with delight at some new discovery or revelation.

DI Greg Lestrade poured himself a drink and settled onto the couch, sighing at how good it felt to finally be off his feet. Ever since he and Mycroft had moved in together, the two men had settled into a routine, where they would spend virtually every minute, when both of them were home, together. After work, they would go from dinner together to drinks and a movie, to the bedroom where they would usually have sex before falling asleep wrapped up in each other, phones sitting on the nightstand, turned on so that if work summoned either of them, they'd be sure to get it.

On this particular night, Mycroft's phone had gone off during the middle of dinner, and he'd brushed a kiss over Greg's lips before practically running out the door to go deal with some crisis involving Tasmania, of all places. It hadn't been long before Greg had gotten called out as well, to deal with a double homicide, and it was now ten at night, with no sign of Mycroft, and no word. He wasn't worried, however. He knew that the "minor government official" would call when he had time, but until then, Greg was determined to salvage the night.

At least, until he heard a rather insistent knocking at their front door. It obviously wasn't Mycroft, because he'd have used his key, and it wasn't John or he'd have called first. There was always the possibility that it was one of his people or a mass murderer, but considering he'd just come from work, and he hadn't heard of any cop killers running around London, he decided it was safe to open the door.

Sherlock Holmes walked in with a stricken expression on his face, and wordlessly hung up his jacket and went to the plush armchair he always selected on the rare occasions he visited, sitting down and staring at the floor as if it held the mysteries of the universe. Greg closed the door before hurrying over to look the consulting detective over, but there was no blood on him, so the DI figured he wasn't physically injured. John, then? But that didn't make sense either. Everyone knew how Sherlock felt about his blogger—everyone but his blogger, anyway—and there was no doubt in his mind that if John were injured, the pale, tall man would be there, instead of here.

"Have you come to see Mycroft?" Lestrade kept his voice low, slow, and soothing, using much the same tone he employed on victims of shock. Sherlock blinked up at him as if just realizing that he was there, the expression on his face so lost and confused that Greg was reminded of how young Sherlock was, in some ways. No matter how much of a rivalry there was between the siblings, Mycroft always looked after Sherlock, and when the younger Holmes was experiencing emotional distress, he always turned to his older brother.

"I don't know what to do. I don't think… I can't go back to Baker Street tonight." Deciding that Sherlock needed his drink more than he did, Greg handed it over, and the curly haired man downed it in one gulp, wincing a little at the burn. He wasn't used to drinking—he tended to avoid anything that would serve to dull his mind—but tonight, he decided that getting drunk would be a wonderful idea. He wondered if he could convince the DI to just leave him in peace with the liquor cabinet.

But no, that concerned expression on his face suggested that he would want to _talk_. Lestrade, as he knew, was a strong proponent of sentiment. Sherlock had never quite understood why the man had assumed that beneath the Iceman exterior, his brother had a heart, but for whatever reason, the two men just worked together, in a way that he'd never fit with anyone. As jealous as he was, he also was grateful that Mycroft had someone. Someone who understood emotions… Hmm.

"I had come here to talk to Mycroft, yes. But you might actually be of more help, in this one instance." It was as close as Sherlock had ever come to admitting that the DI might be more intelligent than him in one area, and it caught Greg completely off guard. Still, if Mycroft's little brother needed help, he wasn't going to take the opportunity to brag. He would see if there was anything he actually could do to help remove that dazed expression from his face.

"You said you can't go back to Baker Street tonight. Maybe I could be of help if you would explain why?"

"I may have embarrassed myself in front of John. No, I definitely did that. I… When John came in tonight, it was just like it always is, except I must not be as in control of this as I think I am, because he became concerned and asked me what I was thinking about, and I told him I was thinking about him. Obviously, I couldn't stay there after that, so I may have made things worse by running out the door without telling him where I was going. I wasn't sure myself. I've been wandering around London for a few hours, but I thought perhaps Mycroft would know how to fix this."

Throwing his head back against the back of the chair, Sherlock huffed out a breath as he stared at the ceiling, his normally quick brain not turning up any solutions to his problem. He felt so lost, so hopeless, in a way that he hadn't felt since the fiasco with John and that awful assassin he'd married. It had been fortunate, really, that John hadn't wanted anything to do with her after discovering that the child wasn't his. Sherlock doubted he would get lucky enough to have a second miracle happen. Though maybe there was a drug he could use, to make John forget his bizarre behavior… or one he could use on himself, to make said behavior disappear… Hmm.

"Sherlock, I don't think it's as bad as you're thinking it is. For one thing, you frequently say strange things that make no sense to anyone else. John could just as easily think that you were thinking about doing an experiment on him or something. I think you may have overreacted a bit."

The consulting detective blinked at the ceiling, then opened his mouth to say something sarcastic and potentially very rude to Greg. Then he closed it, frowning, because there was every possibility that he was correct. It was not the kind of thing Mycroft would have said to him, but perhaps the DI had a point. He did, after all, have a far better grasp on human emotions than either Holmes brother.

"Do you think that I can cover it up, then? Pretend it was something to do with a case, or whatever?"

Greg contemplated that for a minute, before realizing that there was no good direct answer. He decided to go with the question he had a feeling Mycroft would have asked.

"I think the question you should be asking is whether or not you want to cover it up, Sherlock. You are, and have been since your childhood if Mycroft is to be believed, an excellent actor. You never let anything slip out that you don't plan to. I understand that this is all new and overwhelming for you, and that maybe that's why you're having such a hard time with it, but I think that if you truly didn't want John to know, you wouldn't be slipping like this. Honestly, I think it'll only keep getting worse until you back yourself into a corner you can't get out of."

"That is not helpful, George!" The consulting detective fumed, but Greg just shrugged. He knew that Sherlock knew his name, and that the fact that he wasn't using it meant that he was agitated with him. That didn't matter, though, because they both knew that the DI was probably correct.

"Why don't you sleep on it, Sherlock? You can stay here tonight, and My's assistant can drop you back at Baker Street tomorrow. That's soon enough to deal with all this. I think some rest would do you good."

Frowning, he decided to take Greg's advice, and headed up to the guest room he always utilized when staying at this flat. It had been happening more and more lately, when Sherlock was having a problem with his own emotions getting the better of him. He would retreat here for a night, and rebuild his shields. He just had a bad feeling it wasn't going to be that easy this time.

Gregory waited up for another two hours before Mycroft showed up, by which point he'd begun to doze on the couch, another habit of his when the politician wasn't home. If he couldn't share a bed with the man he loved, he didn't like sleeping in bed at all. It had been an exhausting week, of course, but the couch was better than trying to sleep when his awareness of the empty space where his lover usually slept was always greater than his exhaustion.

Mycroft shook his shoulder gently to wake him, an affectionate smile on his face. No one else got to see Mycroft Holmes's human side, except occasionally his younger brother, and Greg felt his heart melt again with the knowledge. He sat up while Mycroft sat down beside him, and they kissed for a moment, a slow, sweet expression of the love between them the perfect ending to a not so perfect week.

"I've managed to get us that week off, Gregory. Perhaps we can take that vacation you've been wanting to take after all?"

To his credit, Greg didn't ask how Mycroft had secured both of them time off. He just grinned at the government man, kissing him again before glancing up.

"I'd love to show you the full measure of my gratitude, but your brother's in our guest room at the moment, and I'd rather not have another one of those perfectly awkward breakfasts where he decides to comment on the noises coming from our room. I can't be sure he's asleep. I'm not sure he is going to sleep tonight, actually."

Mycroft nodded, frowning thoughtfully.

"He's not handling this with John very well, is he?"

"Nope. John asked him what he was thinking about earlier, and Sherlock blurted out 'you,' then promptly left the flat and wandered London for a few hours before finding his way here, throwing a temper tantrum, and asking for help."

"Sherlock needs to deal with this. It is not going away on its own."

"No, it isn't. But it isn't our place to interfere. Although, I was thinking that if you did manage to get the time off for us, we might be able to fit an extra twosome on the jet?"

Raising an eyebrow, Mycroft grinned, pleased by his lover's scheming ways. Really, if Gregory didn't love his job as a cop so much, he would have had him recruited as an M-15 years ago.

"I think that could be arranged." The two went to bed and cuddled, talking over the possibilities before falling asleep. When they woke up in the morning, Sherlock was gone, having left a note saying that he "needed to think," and that he would, perhaps, see them soon. Mycroft made a note to have his assistant track his brother, just to make sure he stayed out of trouble, but had a feeling he knew where he'd gone.

Sherlock Holmes sat on the roof of St. Bart's, a place he often came to think when he couldn't go home to think, which had been happening more and more often of late. He'd been here since before dawn, and now the sun was beginning to illuminate the streets of London, breaking through the fog and casting shadows and light in a beautiful, temporary piece of artwork.

Normally, he wasn't romantic enough to notice such things, but John made him think about those sorts of things. John Watson, his conductor of light, made him a bit more ordinary, with every overly wordy compliment and clueless smile, with every cuppa and every brain-cell destroying program on the telly. The unassuming army doctor, with his blonde hair and those blue eyes that alternately sparkled with determination and humor, was completely unaware of how Sherlock felt, of course. That was by Sherlock's own design, of course. He'd never planned for John to know, never intended to reveal the extent of his attachment to this man he'd faked his death for, nearly _died_ for.

Of course, none of that mattered now. Now Sherlock had to deal with his runaway emotions, and figure out if he could bear to face the consequences of revealing how he felt.

He'd told the doctor, when first they'd met, that he was married to his work. But ever since that day, if only in his mind, he'd been having an incredible affair with the blonde. So much so that he was contemplating a separation, so he could have more time to romance the man who'd saved his life, as well as the icy heart he'd professed never to have.

Just then, Sherlock heard shuffling steps coming up behind him, and John took a seat beside him, legs dangling like Sherlock's. Nobody so much as looked up from the street, though John looked up every time he walked past. He was somehow unsurprised to find the genius here, eyes wide with surprise and a rare kind of vulnerability when they met his, startling a gentle smile out of him.

"I had a feeling I would find you here."

"Why?" Confused as to why John had even bothered looking for him, as well as why this place, which he hated, was the first place he'd looked—because Sherlock knew it was—he decided to ask, instead of deduce. It was a courtesy he always tried to extend to John, his way of telling the shorter man that he set him apart, even if John never understood that it was the closest thing to a love letter that Sherlock could give to him.

"Because this is where you go when you don't want to come home, or think you can't." The words were soft, but they still made Sherlock flinch. This was the closest either of them had come to discussing The Fall, though they'd certainly danced around it enough. It reminded Sherlock that John had no idea of all the times he'd sacrificed pieces of himself for him. There was so little of him left, yet he would give it all, every breath, every drop of blood, all the considerable power of his mind, just to earn one smile from those lips.

"Hey, I don't… I'm sorry. For whatever I did." John put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, but was surprised and hurt when the taller man jerked away and scrambled back so he could stand, expression changing too rapidly for John to be able to read it. Eventually, he settled on a bitter smile, those full lips twisting up in a cruel grin sharp enough to cut glass. His eyes were strangely unfocused, as if his mind was far away.

_What did you do that was so bad? You made me fall in love with you. You made me willing to give up everything I am, everything I will ever be, to make you happy. You made me love you, when you can never love me back, but I can't hate you because you're such a good friend to me, better than I deserve, and you deserve more than me, and always will. You made it so I can't tell you how I feel because I can't lose you, so instead I just have to pine away from you, so close but never as close as I'd like, while I will be forever alone and have to watch you fall in love and leave me again._

Instead of saying any of that, however, Sherlock shrugged, shoving his hands in his pockets as he made his way to stand near the edge, his feet almost exactly where they'd been the day of The Fall. John obviously recognized the pose—it was burned into the back of his mind forever, nightmares of that day replacing the ones from the army—because he got to his feet and held his hands up, blue eyes wide with shock and pain.

Sherlock sighed, stepping back from the edge, though he kept his gaze cast toward the street below as he spoke.

"You have nothing to apologize for, John Watson. The fault is entirely mine." He turned on his heel and started walking toward the door, but a warm hand wrapped around his arm in an unbreakable grip, halting him. He closed his eyes, wishing the whole situation away, terrified because he knew what was going to happen.

"You can't just leave, Sherlock. Look, I know that I should probably know what it is you're on about, and I know you're probably disappointed that I don't get it, but I… Can you just explain? Explain to me what it is that has you running all over London to avoid talking about it, what has you here looking for all the world like you're sad and so heartbreakingly lonely…"

The hand fell away, leaving the choice to him, and even though he was tempted to run away again, keep John for just one more minute, hour, day, eternity, he knew it was time to get it over with.

One way or the other, he would resolve things here, in the place he'd once feared would be the end of everything good in his life. Now, he'd come full circle. John had forgiven him for leaving the first time, had forgiven him for being wrong about Mary, had forgiven him for so many things… but how could he forgive him for loving him, when it would likely destroy their friendship, partnership, and everything they'd built together?

Sherlock, who never apologized for anything, was at a loss for how to say what he needed to say, at least knew how to start.

"First, John, I must apologize. It is not a reflection on you, it is only that I… find myself not as certain of things as once I was. I was a very different man, before I met you, before I learned what it was to be your friend… I was a mess, resorting to anything that would kill the loneliness I felt, until I could convince myself that I was not lonely, just bored, bored with everything and everyone. It was the perfect plan, you see. It was flawless… until you.

"I never expected you to enter my life, never expected to have a partner in these endeavors of mine, never thought that anyone could put up with me long enough to form any kind of bond. I had built up so many layers that I was certain no one would ever get through them. For whatever reason, you managed, with one bullet, to destroy my life's work. And I have never been more grateful."

Pausing because sentiment was difficult, and because he found himself breathless and struggling for words, Sherlock clenched one hand into a fist, trying to use the pain from fingernails digging into flesh to ground him. Not for the first time, he wished he did not have to do this. But this, like so much else, was inevitable. He just had to hope that he could survive it with enough left intact to start over. He would never feel whole again, but he owed it to John to continue to do his work, no matter how impossible it was.

John had taught him to do the right thing _because _it was the right thing, not simply for the thrill, or because it benefitted him. John had made him a better person, just by being there and putting up with him, no matter that he was a freak, no matter that he was insensitive, a jerk, entirely unlovable… He would spend the rest of his life honoring the man he loved, who'd offered him something no one else ever had. For a few years, he'd been happy.

And those few years would have to be enough, because there was no way that John, even with his bottomless capacity for caring, could possibly love him in return.

"I've never known how to thank you, for everything that you've done. Even knowing your life would be so much better without me in the picture, I couldn't bring myself to let you go. I've been selfish, so selfish, manipulating you, keeping you all to myself, sabotaging your every chance at happiness without ever telling you why.

"I came here today because I needed to find the courage, somehow, to tell you why. It's only because I love you, and don't know how to live without you, when so much of me belongs to you and the best parts only exist because of you… and because I find myself with the unfortunate dilemma of knowing that you will never return my affections, despite the fact that it has become more than even I can bear, to keep the secret… that I struggle to find the words to ask you to stay, despite all the reasons you have to go. You, John Watson, can live without me… but I find myself doubting that I, no matter how outwardly capable I might seem, can live without you."

He heard a sharp intake of breath behind him, and Sherlock tensed, waiting. He wondered if John would hit him, as he had when he'd returned after taking out Moriarty's network, or if he would simply walk away with disgust.

"I can move my things out tonight and be gone. I'll pay my share of the rent until you find another roommate, but you will never have to see me…" Sherlock was stopped, not because he ran out of rambling words, but because just then, John spun him around and pressed their lips gently together, eyes wide open so there could be no doubt that he knew who he was kissing.

Sherlock's eyes were open, too, with shock. His mind went completely blank and his body was frozen, until John pulled back, a small half smile on his face that Sherlock wasn't at all sure how to respond to.

"I hardly think that's necessary, Sher."

"I…" Completely at a loss for words, Sherlock tried to figure out what this was. Pity? Sympathy? Curiosity?

"Oh, for the love of… I love you, you berk. Quit looking at me like you're trying to figure out what I'm smoking."

"…What?" Unable to process John's words, the consulting detective could only stare at him, holding his breath. Could he dare to hope…?

"You heard me. And it's not me being you friend who feels bad because of your pitiful social skills, or whatever. I just never though that you would feel the same. I figured if I said anything you'd freak out and get all upset because you hate sentiment. I just never dared to dream… Oh, talking is pointless. If you're just going to keep staring at me like that…" John tangled his fingers in dark, curly hair and brought their mouths together again, lingering this time, letting himself enjoy it.

It took Sherlock several moments to respond, still unable to believe his luck. Slowly, he moved his lips, expecting at any moment for John to pull back, laugh about it, and make some stupid joke. Instead, he moaned into the kiss, the sound encouraging Sherlock to continue. He nipped at John's lips gently, as he'd dreamed about doing a thousand times, and felt a rush of lust shoot straight to his groin when those nips were returned.

"Can I take you home now? Your hands are freezing and you forgot your scarf." Sherlock had barely noticed when John had pulled back, so preoccupied was he by the sensations, but the words made him blush a little. No matter how messed up he was, or how irrational he acted, John Watson was always there for him. Overcome momentarily by sentiment, Sherlock pulled John close, holding him tight while he whispered in his ear.

"We can go wherever you'd like, but I don't need my scarf."

"Why's that?" John asked, amused.

"Because all I need to keep me warm is you."


End file.
